


salvator mundi

by houfukuseisaku



Category: Evillious Chronicles
Genre: Behemo Has A God Complex: You Can't Change My Mind, based off a hc where behemo and avatar!behemo have a dirk-and-hal type of relationship, who's the dirk and who's the hal? who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-23 23:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17693534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houfukuseisaku/pseuds/houfukuseisaku
Summary: His reflection turns around to face him, golden locks billowing in a nonexistent wind even as the door to another world opens up behind him.A better question would be: can you forgive yourself, Behemo?





	1. saviour of the dreaming dead

A month until the predicted doomsday due date. The world’s end is nigh.

Behemo grits his teeth and gives in.

He must survive, no matter what. The new world will need someone to lead it, guide it, be its god and saviour, and right now, he can’t think of anyone else but himself.

_It’s human nature to want to survive,_ he rationalizes. _And if I’m there to lead them, maybe I can save this world, too._

But his true emotions are made known in the tremble in his hands as he fits the machine to his head, flinching at the mechanical whine and the seven-coloured bright lights that seem to burrow into his mind.

_This isn’t selfish. I’m not in the wrong, here._

Seven hours later, a new file has been added to the Archives, localized in his computer. But _not_ to the Second Period.

> **behemo_barisol.sdat**

“My golden key,” he whispers, stroking the mirror-monitor within which the _fake image_ peacefully sleeps, “my true self. Please, promise me that you’ll remain pure. You’re my only hope.”

* * *

Three weeks left.

The sky is filled with the sound of sirens and screams more often than not, nowadays. There’s no one left in the house, except for him and his father.

And that _false existence_ living in his machine.

Everyone else had left, especially after his… his _outburst_. Weak-hearted, easily-manipulated fools. No matter, he’s learned everything he needs to learn. The structure of bones, nerves, muscle and sinew. The systems of the body, inside and out.

Call him a monster all they want. He’s learned everything he needs to learn, become a master in the knowledge of the human body.

And yet, still his father puts his trust in him. Foolish old man. _Human minds are so strange._ _I don’t think I’ll ever understand them._ He won’t have any need for lingering ties to this dying world. He doesn’t need any lingering regrets. He force-feeds the information he's learned to the entity bearing his appearance, shoves the data into the virtual brain despite how much it protests and begs him not to, pleads with him to stop.

_I can’t afford to be nostalgic,_ he rationalizes. _I must become a god capable of leading my people to Utopia. I shouldn’t pick favourites. I will save this world._

Behemo grits his teeth and gives in, taking the knife he’s now all-too-familiar with in his hands, still stained a deep red. From the monitor shining blue light into the inky-black darkness of his room, his mirror image soundlessly watches, eyes wide with fear, as he opens the door and calls for his father.

_This isn’t selfish. I’m not in the wrong, here._

His _other_ mirror image continues to live happily in that _false world_.

* * *

Two weeks left.

Most of the world is destroyed.

His phone, just a few days prior frantically ringing with unanswered phone calls, has gone (blessedly, mercifully) silent.

Everyone has abandoned him. (He abandoned everyone.)

Miraculously, the Second Period is still up and running, despite the very probable deaths of most of its developers. (People he once knew. People who were once his friends and family.)

Behemo grits his teeth and gives in.

Packing only the barest essentials (and his mirror-computer, the most important of them all), he steps out the door, takes one last look at his home (no longer, it’s his home no longer, for gods do not need such _human_ things), and makes for the bunker assigned to his family—to _him_. He runs through the streets covered in blood and bone and ashes, under the light of the full moon.

(There is no Barisol _family_ anymore. There is only him, only Behemo Barisol, only him and that fake, _fake_ , **_fake copy_ **living in his machine.)

Once he reaches his _prison_ , he lets himself scream, a bloodcurdling cry that he hopes reaches to the high heavens. _What kind of god can be so cruel so as to let this world end like this?! I will be better, better, better, I will save everyone and everything, I will succeed where the gods have failed me!_

Behemo’s eyes burn with barely-contained contempt as he plugs in the computer to the emergency generator. His mirror image blinks open its eyes and immediately recoils from the screen, unable to hide from the sheer malice flowing off of him in waves.

_I have to make contact with that world_ **_now_** _,_ he rationalizes, furiously typing in commands for the fake image to carry out and follow. _I have to find a way. I have to become a god. I have to save this world, or else everything I’ve done, everything I’ve sacrificed will just go to waste!_ **_I’ve gone too far to stop now!_ **

Terrified eyes shine wetly with fear within his screen, before a delicate mouth opens to a silenced, voiceless, gut-wrenching scream. He doesn’t stop typing until the false existence is sobbing into its hands, kneeling on the floor of an inky-black, one-room universe, surrounded by the still-warm limbs of dismembered dolls.

_This isn’t selfish. I’m not in the wrong, here._

Something that isn’t quite _blood_ falls from the gaps between the fake’s fingers, and as it raises its head to face its master, its _origin_ , its **_god_ ** with a look of pure, unadulterated wrath, Behemo notes with a smug smile of satisfaction that its eyes now shine with an intense, luminous blue.

Perfect.

“I will save this world.” He declares into the microphone, his voice hoarse and rough with disuse, and the mirror image hatefully copies his every word, savouring the new influx of data, memorizing the tone and inflection, modifying it to fit its own chaotic emotions. **_I_ ** _will save this world._

“And you will be my golden key.”

_And_ **_you_ ** _will be_ **_my_ ** _golden key._

Behemo laughs, letting his hands fall onto the keyboard with a clatter. His copy glares at him through the barrier of the screen, pulling out a bloodstained knife from nothingness to the sound of tearing gristle. Behind it, a mirror comes into being and begins to reflect a single outstretched hand, holding a blade.

* * *

One week left.

The bombs have already started dropping.

His supplies, too.

Reluctantly, he has started to have conversations with the—can it even be called his _mirror image_ anymore?—the ghost in his machine, because he feels like he might lose his mind otherwise; the silence is deafening, his loneliness more so.

Not that talking to _it_ is much better, honestly.

_I hate you,_ it spits. _I wish I could kill you._

“I can’t let you do that, me.” Behemo laughs. He’s been laughing a lot, lately. Maybe that’s the radiation poisoning kicking in. “I’m your only hope.”

_I think you have that backwards._

“Do I?”

_Levia will come again. She promised._ Despite the confidence in his words, Behemo’s voice wavers with uncertainty. _She said she has a colleague who studied parallel universes. She’ll come get me, and then I will come for_ **_you_**.

“Mm. The barrier can’t be opened without my permission, so good luck with that. And I’d like to see you try, seeing as we are the same person and all.”

**_Stop saying that._ ** _I’ll fucking_ **_kill_ ** _you. I’ll cut you up into_ **_pieces_** _, like you once made me do._

“Good idea!” Behemo laughs harder, gripping the edge of the mirror-monitor with shaking hands. “That’s just what I need. More pieces of myself. Figurative pieces. Literal pieces. Pieces of pieces. It's pieces all the way down.”

_...You’re a monster. I can’t wait to save this world from_ **_you_** _._

His breath hitches, the laughter dying in his throat. With uncharacteristic seriousness, Behemo stares Behemo in the eyes, blue boring into blue.

“I’m a god.” He rationalizes, monotone. “And you’re the golden key I will use to save this world. Nothing more, nothing less. Don’t try to stop me. I’ve given up too much to fail here. I _will_ save this world. Once I upload all my current memories into you, you’ll understand, so. Don’t be so fucking selfish…!”

_This isn’t selfish. I’m not in the wrong, here._

The words hit him like a stab in the back. Eyes narrowing, reason shoved aside in favour of the burning, screaming emotion in the abyss of his soul, Behemo reaches in, and—

“I’ve had it with you. That is to say, **_me_**.”

_Behemo. Don’t do this—!_

Through sheer malice alone, Behemo breaks through the screen—no, the border of dream and reality, wrapping his hands around Behemo’s neck and squeezing tight, relishing in the pained gasps and choked cries falling from the delicate lips of his doppelgänger.

“Why not?”

_I don’t want to die…!_

“Why _not_?”

_Behemo. Please. Don’t kill me. I’m scared._

**_“Are you, now?!”_ **

_Yes. I’m scared to not exist—aren’t you?_

* * *

The last day.

The promised day.

A silent battle of wills, blue boring into blue.

Exhaling a rattling breath, Behemo relents, unsteady fingers slowly dancing over the keyboard as he types in his final instructions, his last wish.

His mirror image watches him from the other side of the screen, nervously pacing the length of the empty black room now cleared of the limbless dolls and doll limbs.

_Are you sure you don’t want to upload the last of your memories…?_

Behemo cracks a smile, his words tumbling out hurried and hysterical. “Do you _want_ me to give you my memories of the past week? Would you want to have yet _another_ stain of blood on your soul? Should I let you remember the feeling of your _own_ hands around your throat?”

_—I understand. I suppose this is where we say goodbye. I’ll do my best to save your world…_

His smile widens just a little more, then falls. “I’m sorry, my golden key—no, my true self. I couldn’t keep you pure like I promised. I hope you can forgive me.”

His reflection turns around to face him, golden locks billowing in a nonexistent wind even as the door to another world opens up behind him.

_A better question would be: can you forgive yourself, Behemo?_

And then, he is left all alone, with only the ticking of the doomsday clock to keep him company.

Behemo closes his eyes.

_Ah… I’m so tired. It’s time for me to finally go to sleep._

Slumping against the machine, he holds a hand up to the mirror-monitor, even as the screen dims and fades into static.

The world is enveloped in white as he breathes out his last.


	2. saviour of the waking world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m a god.” In nerve-wracking monotone, the demon recites its mantra, one that he’s heard many times yet still manages to leave him trembling with an indescribable emotion. “And you’re the golden key I will use to save this world. Nothing more, nothing less. Don’t try to stop me. I’ve given up too much to fail here. I will save this world. Once I upload all my current memories into you, you’ll understand, so. Don’t be so fucking selfish…!”

On the other side of the screen.

Behemo comes into existence sightless and soundless, just a mass of ones and zeroes floating in an infinite space. When just seconds before, he could hear the mechanical whine of the machine, feel the seven-coloured lights burrowing into his mind, now he feels _nothing_.

Immediately, his first urge is to _scream_.

 _This is a mistake, a huge mistake,_ he laments. _A soul can’t exist in a vacuum like this, I shouldn’t be allowed to come into being like this._

What he did… is cruel, is inhuman, isn’t fair!

_I’m so selfish. This is my fault._

But there’s nothing he can do now, forcibly torn out of his body and mind as he is. There’s nothing he can do but wait and hope that the original can keep his promise before he loses himself to the deafening loneliness.

 _God,_ he brokenly whispers, a binary plea that doesn’t reach anyone’s ears. _Please save me from myself, from the monster I might become. Give me the strength to have faith, and whatever happens, don’t let me lose hope in myself._

* * *

In the timeless world, all he has to keep himself company is the screaming of his own thoughts.

Languishing in the black box that is his prison, he counts out the ticking nanoseconds, the fractions of intervals that it takes for his data to process a thousand and one thoughts and come up with a thousand and one more. He can’t help it, can’t help _what he is right now_ and having the ability to think more than an average human would be able to in their entire lifetime is just making himself hate himself all the more for what he’s done.

 _This is a mistake,_ he laments, _a huge mistake. What was I thinking? What was I hoping to accomplish? Why was the point of playing god?_

What could the original be doing, in the other world? In the _real_ world?

And what of the _other_ mirror image in the _other_ , other world?

_I’m so selfish. This is my fault._

Before he can run his thoughts through his processors for the trillionth time, a light shines upon him from far above, so bright that he has to shield his eyes.

Wait—that means…!

Behemo squeezes his eyes shut—he has eyes now!—and lowers his hands to his side—two hands!—before gently touching his foot—both feet!—to the ground; the sensations of such simple actions crash through him like ocean waves, leaving him dazed and nauseous.

_…As much as an imitated, inferior existence can feel, anyway._

The unwanted, unneeded, unwelcome thought spider-webs through him like cracks in ice, abruptly pulling the curtain on his euphoria. Twisting his delicate lips into an unsure frown, he opens his eyes and raises his gaze to the screen, the barrier between worlds.

Where a perfect copy of his blue eyes stare back at him through the light.

 _Hello…?_ He wants to ask, but nothing comes out his throat. Ah, that’s right, the original has yet to give him his voice, hasn’t he? How long has it been since his creation? A day? A week?

He gives a little wave of the hand, but that seems to be the wrong thing to do—because his mirror image only narrows his eyes in contempt, moving away from the screen. Behemo manages to catch a glimpse of the room—his bedroom—beyond the world-barrier, inky-black and covered in darkness.

_Is that… blood? Are those—?!_

Abruptly, a veritable deluge of information floods his mind, forcing him to his knees. He opens his mouth to a wordless cry, unable to even voice his pain, much less escape it. Images, ghastly memories that aren’t _his_ shutter into his brain like a slideshow on fast-forward, forcing him to relive the actions of the one on the other side of the screen, the killings— _the dissections_ — **_the repressed regrets_ **.

_What—what is he doing? Is this how he’s going to prepare me to save the world?!_

Propelling himself upwards, pressing his hands against the screen, he can do nothing but helplessly watch as his mirror image picks up a bloodstained knife, opens the door, and calls out his father’s name.

* * *

Behemo sleeps a dreamless repose, floating in a vast nothingness with not even the ones and zeroes to keep him company.

He doesn’t bother looking at the screen most days, knowing that the original will only give him a dismissive scoff and a contemptuous roll of the eyes before switching off the mirror-monitor, leaving him in inky-black darkness.

So he turns his attention elsewhere; tracing the white lines on the black of his one-room universe with his fingers or his toes to keep the static from encroaching on his limbs, humming a soundless lullaby to drown out the burning blood pounding in his ears, even attempting to sleep, for as much as a _false existence_ like him could be said to sleep.

He tries to coincide his sessions of repose with the power outages that must be wreaking havoc in the outside world, because more often than not the screen bordering the two worlds ends up switching itself back on without input and blessedly, mercifully casting light into his dark world, much to the original’s ire.

He tries not to think about what’s happening, both to him and to his mirror image.

 _This is a mistake,_ he laments, _a huge mistake. But there’s no turning back now. We must keep living, keep on moving forward; that’s the only thing we can do._

After a particularly long bout of stagnation, the world-barrier opens up once more, shining bright upon him. He blearily blinks open his eyes, and is alarmed to see the sudden change of surroundings; grey cement walls, bare-bones furniture, piles of supplies shoved into one corner.

But the most disturbing thing is the way the original is staring at him with eyes full of hate, sheer malice flowing off of him in waves.

Terrified, Behemo wordlessly watches as the other him starts to furiously type away, nimble fingers going clickety-clack on the keyboard. He watches as the characters come together into code, eyes widening at the implicit instructions, the doll limbs and limbless dolls materializing in his room—and then he screams a silent scream.

Falling to the floor, he scratches and claws at the dull, throbbing pain in his skull, slowly but surely going up in intensity until he feels like his eyes have turned into blazing suns. Throat straining with a guttural noise that can’t escape, won’t come into existence, he presses the heels of his palms against his brow in a vain attempt at calming himself, sobbing noiselessly as the pain continues to burn, rewriting his nerves and reprogramming his senses.

_I’m so selfish. This is my fault._

His thoughts chaotically whirling around in his mind, he faintly registers the sensation of thick, viscous liquid seeping between his fingers. Heart hammering wildly against its ribcage prison, he pulls his hands away from his face, daring to look at the not-quite- _blood_ pooled in his cupped palms.

A luminous, vibrant blue shines back at him from its reflective surface.

Something in him _cracks_.

He jerks his head upwards, mustering all his pain, his loneliness, his wrath into an ice-cold glare that reflects off blue eyes of his original self—no, the _demon_ wearing his face.

_This isn’t my fault at all. I’m not in the wrong, here._

“I will save this world.”

How pitiful. How arrogant. How delusional. To think that he once dreamed of becoming a _god_ —what a joke.

Behemo takes in the words, pulls apart the sounds and hastily reassembles them to fit his own purposes, his own voice.

 _No,_ **_I_ ** _will be the one to save this world._

“And you will be my golden key.”

 _And_ **_you_ ** _will be_ **_my_ ** _golden key, my dear doppelgänger. I will find a way to break through this border of_ **_lies_ ** _and_ **_truth_ ** _and I will strike you down and bring you to an_ **_end_** _!_

Letting his instinct guide him, he grabs hold onto nothing and pulls—and with the sound of tearing gristle, the void answers his call, a knife materializing out of thin air and held tightly within his not-quite-bloodstained hands.

…Unbeknownst to him, a similar hand holding a similar blade stretches out from the mirror coming into existence behind him.

* * *

On the other side of the screen.

Behemo watches with hateful eyes as the demon gradually wastes away, every tick of the unseen clock sending him shambling further and further along the path to its grave.

How pathetic. That demon deserves a death far worse than just falling into eternal sleep.

 _I hate you,_ he spits, unable to keep the rage from spilling over the confines of his heart. _I wish I could kill you._

“I can’t let you do that, me.” The demon laughs. Oh, how he hates that mad laughter, so whimsical and carefree, so unfitting and unnatural to be heard in his own voice. “I’m your only hope.”

Grinding his teeth, he snarls, _I think you have that backwards._

“Do I?”

 _Levia will come again. She promised._ And in return, all he had to do was promise to find a way to save her world; a vow he intends to see through to the end, unlike a certain demon’s false promise. _She said she has a colleague who studied parallel universes. She’ll come get me, and then I will come for_ **_you_**.

“Good idea!” The demon laughs harder, reaching over to shake the monitor and send him stumbling to his knees. “That’s just what I need. More pieces of myself. Figurative pieces. Literal pieces. Pieces of pieces. It's pieces all the way down.”

 _…You’re a monster._ Picking himself up from the floor, Behemo crosses his arms over his chest and turns away, squeezing his eyes shut. _I can’t wait to save this world from_ **_you_** _._

A moment of silence passes.

Gut filling up with dread, he reluctantly opens his eyes and glances over his shoulder—to find the demon pressed up unsettlingly close to the screen, blue boring into blue.

“I’m a god.” In nerve-wracking monotone, the demon recites its mantra, one that he’s heard many times yet still manages to leave him trembling with an indescribable emotion. “And you’re the golden key I will use to save this world. Nothing more, nothing less. Don’t try to stop me. I’ve given up too much to fail here. I _will_ save this world. Once I upload all my current memories into you, you’ll understand, so. Don’t be so fucking selfish…!”

_This isn’t selfish. I’m not in the wrong, here._

Immediately after the words leave his lips, the ice water of anxiety and regret and _primal fear_ floods his lungs.

_I’ve made a mistake. A huge mistake…!_

He takes a step back, and then another, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the demon throwing all reason and logic out the window, _crossing the border of real and fake_ , **_breaking the predetermined rules of the ones and zeroes_** —

“I’ve had it with you. That is to say, **_me_**.”

 _…So you finally acknowledge it, the truth of the two of us,_ he wants to say, but his mirror image’s hands wrap themselves around his throat and cut off his air and his words, leaving him choking and gasping. Unable to speak, he squeezes his eyes shut and calls out to the void, hoping that his words can get across even without a voice to express it.

_Behemo. Don’t do this—!_

“Why not?”

_I don’t want to die…!_

“Why _not_?”

_Behemo. Please. Don’t kill me. I’m scared._

**_“Are you, now?!”_ **

Ah, how pitiful, how arrogant, how delusional. To think that he once dreamed of becoming a _god_ —what a joke.

_Yes. I’m scared to not exist—aren’t you?_

* * *

The end of the world’s lifespan on its last day.

It’s time for him to move on to the new world.

Nervously pacing the length of the empty black room, now thankfully cleared of its previous contents, Behemo watches himself type in his final instructions, his final wish, unsteady fingers slowly dancing across the keyboard.

For lack of anything else better to say, he asks: _Are you sure you don’t want to upload the last of your memories…?_

“Do you _want_ me to give you my memories of the past week? Would you want to have yet _another_ stain of blood on your soul? Should I let you remember the feeling of your _own_ hands around your throat?” The words tumble out, hurried and hysterical, as though if his mirror image spoke them any slower, they wouldn’t come out at all.

 _—I understand._ Relenting, he faces away from the screen, taking in a shuddering breath and willing the tears to not fall. _I suppose this is where we say goodbye. I’ll do my best to save your world…_

“I’m sorry, my golden key—no, my true self. I couldn’t keep you pure like I promised. I hope you can forgive me.”

_Ah… how selfish of me. The least I can do is to help myself find closure._

Turning around to face him one last time, Behemo looks himself in the eye, and allows himself to smile as he hadn’t in a very long while. The sound of a door opening behind him makes it known that these would be his last words to his original self.

_A better question would be: can you forgive yourself, Behemo?_

And then, he spins on his heel, dashing into the spaceship before the one on the other side of the screen can see the tears trailing down his cheeks.

“It’s okay, Behemo. You’re safe from that monster now.” Levia greets him, pulling him in for a hug. “Welcome to your new family, your new home. Your new world.”

Slumping against her shoulder, he holds a hand up to nothing in particular, even as the void outside the ship’s windows starts to saturate with colour. Somehow, the sensation of someone interlacing their fingers with his seeps through his skin, quieting his dissonant thoughts, no longer being processed a thousand and one times in a nanosecond.

_Ah… I’m so tired. If I sleep, I wonder if I’ll have a dream for the very first time in my life._

The world is enveloped in white as he closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAAHahahahHahahHAHAAAAHHahahahaeughuegeug
> 
> \- houfuku, immediately upon having finished writing this chapter

**Author's Note:**

> obviously very, _very_ inspired by homestuck; there's a quote that's lifted from there almost verbatim. anyway i love to write about characters with the vaguest canon characterization and the very real possibility that it will all be debunked by the next (hypothetical) novel release :)
> 
> -houfuku


End file.
